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Martin Luther King, Jr. stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial roughly 54 years ago and delivered the most famous oration in American history. Like most things much lauded, it has become so very respectable and hallowed that its original energy and meaning have been somewhat lost. Realizing that I myself knew the most-quoted passages but not the full speech itself, I decided to re-read it and re-listen to it to see what I could get out of it. Here’s what I got out of it.

In this the month of giving thanks, we feel it’s essential for a dignified host to know some of the fundamentals of hospitality that distinguish the perfect host. Unless you’re making an intentional statement by not participating in this month’s food fest, it’s important that you know how to prepare, carve and serve the iconic fowl expected to grace your dinner table.

Inspired by their very first watch they built in Detroit, The Runwell Wall Clock is distinguished by Shinola’s signature modern American aesthetic. The design features a matte white dial with raised numerals as well as luminous hands all contained in a polished chrome case and under domed glass. The Runwell features signature Shinola details, including branded black plate with screenprinting technique on dial and caseback for a dimensional look from front to back. The piece comes complete with an opening on the back for wall hanging. A signature Shinola clock stand may be purchased separately for displaying on a mantelpiece or tabletop as an alternative to wall hanging. Every Runwell Clock is built in the United States with US and imported parts.

“Designed by Apple in California” is a new hardbound book chronicling 20 years of Apple’s design, expressed through 450 photographs of past and current Apple products. “Designed by Apple in California,” which covers products from 1998’s iMac to 2015’s Apple Pencil, also documents the materials and techniques used by Apple’s design team over two decades of innovation. The book is dedicated to the memory of Steve Jobs.

Leonard Cohen, the Canadian poet and novelist who abandoned a promising literary career to become one of the foremost songwriters of the contemporary era, has died at his home in Los Angeles. He was 82.

With the stench of this most shitty of election seasons still hovering in the air, one had better open a window—a metaphorical window, of course, to flush out all the bluster and negativity and personal and party animosity. Seneca’s Epistles, written nearly two thousand years ago, is just the thing you need right now: a sane, robust, humane voice calling us back to old-fashioned virtue and forcing us to confront the basic problems of life.

You may have learned how to walk when you were one, but chances are you’re still doing it all wrong. Maybe because of its very ubiquitousness, walking has become a neglected art—familiarity, after all, breedeth contempt. Or, more probably, we’ve become sloppy walkers because of cars. Whatever the reason, you’re in dire need of some perambulation re-education.

It’s not every day that you get to visit the birthplace of a god. Because gods are so rarely born these days, and those places which do boast a deity’s origin tend to be in out-of-the-way locales. Like the island of Crete, for instance—where, tucked into its inland mountains, there is a deep, dank, dark cave which is womb-like in the extreme and well worth visiting if you have any interest at all in religion, mythology, or classical literature. Or caves.

Asking me how I feel about the music of Bob Dylan is like asking me how I feel about air—it’s just there, it permeates everything, it’s an essential of life. Now I realize that many of you out there don’t share my enthusiasm. That’s okay: either you get Bob Dylan or you don’t. But what a lot of people who don’t like him really don’t like is not the real Bob Dylan but the common caricature of him: the overlauded, nasally, incomprehensible Voice of the Baby Boomer Generation.

The Twilight Zone, which premiered on October 2, 1959, is more American than baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie combined. It has its lineage in Poe and pulp fiction, and it’s a forceful document of an America teetering on the brink of the Sixties, still reeling from the horrors of World War II. But it remains germane because it’s a reminder of how the efficiency and rationality of our society produces the very uneasiness it seeks to squelch.

If you haven’t read the interview David Segal did with Howard Stern for the New York Times back in July you missed something. It is an insightful interview with a man widely misunderstood by the public, who has quietly transformed himself over the course of his career into a masterful interviewer and a brilliant conversationalist.

Simple things are rarely really so simple. If someone were to tell you that you need some serious guidance in regards to something as mundane as opening a door, you would, understandably, scoff. But that’s exactly what I’m about to do: offer you a few tips on the correct way to open a door—because, as confident in your door-opening skills as you are, you’re going about it all wrong. Time to unlearn and relearn.

There exists a cinematic spectrum of movie goodness ranging from masterpiece (2001: A Space Odyssey) to pile of shit (The Martian), but there are a select few movies that are totally independent of said spectrum, movies that overturn all generally-held standards of good and bad, movies beyond good and evil, if you will. Mojave—put into very limited release last January and now out on video—is just such a movie.

In 1927 Anno Deum, the twenty-five-year-old son of a Minnesotan Congressman landed a single-seat, single-engine plane at an airfield in Le Bourget, France—successfully accomplishing the first solo flight across the Atlantic, which six pilots had already died attempting to do. After he landed he got a cool $25,000, a ticker-tape parade, and a dance named after him. Charles Lindbergh—one of the most interesting, problematic figures of the twentieth century—died forty-two years ago this month.

I’m a figurative swine sitting in front of a great big pearl in that here I am living in New York—a city swarming with great restaurants—and me not a foodie. On the other hand, I’m not a swine in that, although, like any mortal, I rely on food to continue to exist, I don’t fetishize it like so many of my brethren. In the last ten years or so I’ve become increasingly alarmed by our nation’s growing fixation with gourmandizing. The cooking shows on TV, the infinite number of books and websites, the conversion of the broad American public into connoisseurs—it all strikes me as most unhealthy.

Thirty years ago, Stanley Kubrick created a Vietnam War masterpiece, Full Metal Jacket. Wherever great art is created, we are eager to understand the process, but Kubrick was a notoriously private man. Fortunately, the film’s star, Matthew Modine, had the foresight to keep written and pictorial diaries of the making of the film. The Full Metal Jacket Diary, published in 2005, has been given new life as an “appumentary” for the iPad. We sat down with Mr. Modine to discuss the creation of this iconic film and his stunning app.

When a certain presidential candidate says the turn of the twentieth century is one of those eras he’s referring to when he says “Make America Great Again,” somebody should shove Barbara Tuchman’s Proud Tower in front of him. A downtrodden, angry working class, horrifying terrorist attacks, a huge gap between rich and poor, violent putdowns of protest, virulent racism and blatant imperialism: the era has all too much in common with our own—except it was much, much worse.

Stanley Kubrick: a director well-nigh all directors admire but too few imitate. Love him for his fondness for long pauses, his partiality for long takes, his attraction to abstruse philosophical and mystical points, his lack of fear of boring audiences and/or confounding them. 2001: A Space Odyssey is, arguably, his magnum opus, but today, on the eve of his 88th birthday, I’d like to spotlight a film of his not so readily known yet dear to my heart: Barry Lyndon.